solstice

When I was sixteen, on this day -- and most days of the summer -- I would play tennis at Howe School until we could no longer see the bald ball. David James, beautiful David James, and I would whack away until our movements were directed as much by sound as by vision. We would play past sun down, then I would walk home, salty with sweat.

Today, I spent the waning light hours taking a walk with Margaret, a neighbor, as she explained her recent breast cancer diagnosis. The way the tumor has splattered out of its encapsulation. The malignant tendrils, and wondering whether cells have spread to the lymphatic system or not.

I cannot decide which is a more fitting tribute to the longest day of the year. Using up every minute of the light or talking into the darkness. How our bodies work so gloriously, or how they suffer and still carry our spirits on.